Drop in the Ocean
by Alexide
Summary: Arthur sounds drained, defeated, and his shoulders slump as he says "Cobb had something to fight for." After a fight, Eames runs away, leaving Arthur with one objective: find Eames.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

Hey guys! This is my first time writing a fic ever, so chances are it'll suck. Reviews and constructive criticism are highly appreciated! If you find any mistakes (whether they be punctuation, spelling, grammatical or errors in relation to tenses), please don't hesitate to point them out. This hasn't been beta'd (I have no idea how beta readers work), so all errors are mine.

**Disclaimer: **Inception belongs to Christopher Nolan, I'm just borrowing his characters and having some fun. But oh, how I wish I could own Arthur and Eames! Also, "Drop in the Ocean" belongs to Ron Pope. It's an amazing song, check it out!

/

**Drop in the Ocean**

_It's like a drop in the ocean,_

_A change in the weather,_

_I was praying that you and me might end up together._

_/_

_I don't wanna waste the weekend,_

_If you don't love me, pretend,_

_A few more hours, then it's time to go._

**Chapter One**

Arthur sits at the bar, his fingers drumming mindlessly against the countertop. There's nothing remarkable about this bar, not really. The other patrons are friendly enough, the scotch is just on the right side of tolerable and the bartender tops him up whenever he asks for it, so the bar isn't so bad, he supposes. Everything is going just as planned, Arthur thinks, as he downs another drink and motions to the bartender for more. Get wasted and piss-faced drunk, so much so that he couldn't see straight, yep, that was the plan. Of course, with Arthur's luck, that's when it all goes to shit.

"Hello, darling" Eames drawls in that smooth accented voice of his as he sidles up next to Arthur and perches on a bar stool. "How are you?" a smirk tugs at the edge of his lips. Those lips, Arthur thinks.

Arthur wants to turn to Eames and smile back like he used to, he really does. He wants to reply with a good-natured 'hey' and press a kiss to Eames' lips and just sit and talk for hours. But Arthur has never been good at doing what he wants, so instead, he asks,

"What are you here for, Eames?" his voice is clipped, tight and controlled.

"You tell me, Arthur. You're the smart one, after all."

And at that moment, all Arthur really wants to do is just wrap his arms around the other man, cling to him like a lifeline. But he doesn't, because Arthur doesn't think he'll be able to let go again if he does.

"Go away Eames," he sighed. "Go away."

"But why, darling?" Eames frowns, with something that sounds like a whine in his voice. And Arthur knows he's making those puppy dog eyes at him now, and Arthur won't – can't – look at him because he knows he'll break apart if he does.

"Because you're not real."

/

They were both drunk when it happened. At least he thinks they both were, he wasn't so sure if Eames was or not. He can't really remember, but he sure as hell was drunk off his ass. After more shots of tequila than any of them could count, much more than strictly advisable, Arthur had found himself pressed up against the wall by someone. Arthur thinks he was in his hotel room, but his vision was kind of fuzzy, so he can't be sure. He certainly doesn't remember making his way there. He blinked his eyes, trying to make out whose face was pressed in the crook of his neck.

"Eames," he whispered.

Eames had looked at him, just whispered "Shh, Arthur, just let me do this," and Arthur had let him. Arthur let Eames press his lips against his, let him trace his tongue along the seam of his lips and let Eames explore his mouth. He lets Eames' hands wander, lets it loosen his tie, lets it fumble with the buttons of his waistcoat and smooth down Arthur's chest to rest on his hips. It wasn't the alcohol, he thought. It had nothing to do with that. He had allowed it to happen because he wanted this. Arthur had wanted this for months.

And as Eames fell on top of Arthur onto his hotel bed and whispered the words "I love you" into Arthur's neck while pressing kisses against it, Arthur couldn't quite believe his ears. He thinks it's just his imagination, thinks he's hearing things, until it comes again.

"I love you, darling"

Arthur stiffens, unable "I can't – I don't" he managed to stammer as his heart seized up in his chest, filling him with a sort of aching happiness that felt so good. "I… This is –"

He felt Eames stiffen above him, saw him tense visibly as his face kind of… hardens or seems to close up. Arthur can't tell, because his vision was still kind of fuzzy from the tequila shots from earlier that night.

Eames had pulled off Arthur and his face was tight, his expression carefully schooled into one of forced calm.

"A mistake, I know." he said, his voice taut. "You can't do this. You don't want this, you don't love me. I get it. You're drunk. I shouldn't have."

And what Arthur had meant to say was "I can't believe this, I don't deserve this." He had wanted to say "I love you" back, had wanted to tell Eames that this was amazing. He tried to tell Eames what he meant, he really did.

"Eames, I – what I meant was –" he choked out as he felt panic bubble up in his chest. He didn't want Eames thinking he didn't want this, didn't want Eames to look at him like that, with his face hard and defensive. He wanted desperately to explain to Eames. But Arthur really isn't good at doing what he wants.

"Arthur," Eames said in a clipped voice, "Stop. I get it."

Arthur is beginning to feel desperate because Eames looks at him like that. Like Arthur is a stranger that Eames can't trust. Like he's completely closed up. His hands reach out to Eames to clutch him tight and to tell him that he loves him, but Eames steps away, picks up his coat, that horrible tweed coat, Arthur thinks, and heads out the door as he watches. He thinks he may have preferred it if Eames had slammed the damn thing, but instead, it shuts softly with a small 'snik' which is almost worse in its finality.

And really, all Arthur wants to do is to chase after Eames, tackle him in the hotel hallway and tell him how sorry he is, whisper endearments into his skin and explain to Eames how badly he had misunderstood. But he doesn't. Arthur doesn't do what he wants. Instead, he sits on the bed in his wrinkled shirt and waistcoat, with his suit jacket discarded carelessly in the corner, and curls in on himself, trying to stop the empty ache in his chest, trying to stop his world from caving in.

/

"Leave, Eames" Arthur grits out between his teeth. "I don't want to see you. You're not real"

Eames sighs with the air of someone who has this conversation many, many times before.

"You can't know that for sure." he says. "Not anymore. You have no way of keeping track of reality anymore, Arthur darling. Half the time, you can't tell the difference. I'm as real as it gets."

Eames laughs, and it is a soft, cruel sound. Arthur wonders why he does this in the first place.

He just looks at Eames, expression carefully blank. "I can always tell if you're real," he says in a hollow voice. "And you. Are. Not."

/

Eames ran. Eames ran away from Los Angeles, away from Arthur. He went from L.A. to Seattle, to New York, to San Francisco. After a couple of weeks in each city, Eames' contacts would inform him that a certain Arthur was in town, and he'd get the hell out of dodge.

Eames started avoiding big cities stateside, started holing up in smaller towns. Jefferson, Texas. Xenia, Ohio. Bedford, Pennsylvania. Then he runs away from America entirely, away from Arthur because Arthur doesn't – won't – will never – love him. He goes to London, to Tokyo, to Paris, to Sydney. He found himself down in Rio for a couple of weeks before booking it back to Mombasa when he heard about someone asking around for Mr. Eames. He leaves because he doesn't want to see the anger in Arthur's eyes. He doesn't want to see how much Arthur hates him for taking advantage of the other man while he was drunk.

He stays with Yusuf, and Yusuf lets him. Maybe it's for old times' sake, maybe it's because Eames just had this hangdog expression on his face when he turns up on his doorstep. Of course Arthur had contacted Yusuf and told him to call if Eames turned up though. Eames curses when Yusuf admits this sheepishly to him.

"Don't tell him I'm here" he demands "Or so help me, God, I will pour every bottle of Somnacin and whatever variants you have of it down the drain and I will gut your cat."

Yusuf wasn't sure whether or not to laugh because Eames looked so deadly serious. But he does agree not to tell Arthur grudgingly, so Eames doesn't carry out his threats.

Things were good for a while. Really, they were. Arthur clearly expected Yusuf to call if Eames contacted him, so he didn't think to check Mombasa again. Eames slowly learns to breathe again.

/

Arthur is sitting on the toilet seat cover, with his legs curled up beneath him, knees tucked under his chin. Bathrooms, for all their worth, were universal. It didn't matter if they were ugly and industrial looking, didn't matter if there were dust bunnies staring at him from the corners, didn't matter that the stuttering bulb above him made him look yellow and sickly. Bathrooms were familiar and comforted him with their quintessential bathroom-ness. And damn, if Arthur didn't need the semblance of something familiar in his life, then he didn't know who did.

He tries not to choke as he attempts to get his breathing back under control. Panic attacks had become regular as of late – ever since Eames left – and yet he still can't control them. Arthur misses Eames to the point where there is a physical pain in his chest sometimes. He misses the comfortable familiarity.

He clenches his eyes together in an attempt to stop the tears and tries to think of something else.

/

"Darling," Eames says pointedly, gesturing to the bartender for a drink. "You know plain as day that you can't tell anymore. I'm as real as it'll ever get"

"Can't you even pretend anymore? You know you're going back in a few hours anyway. Or a few minutes, depending on how you look at it."

Arthur clenches his jaw. "No Eames, I can't. I won't pretend. You're a projection of my subconscious and you're not real and I –"

"Darling," Eames says. "Why can't you take a leap of faith like Cobb did? Trust life a little."

"No." Arthur refuses to turn to look at Eames because he knows; he knows that if he does, his resolve will crumble. "No, that was different."

"It's not really," Eames murmurs as he leans an elbow on the counter.

"It is." Arthur sounds drained, defeated, and his shoulders slump as he says "Cobb had something to fight for."

/

Arthur eventually pulls himself together, manages to swallow down the sinking feeling that yes, he's lost what he wanted again. He refuses to listen to that voice, refuses to let panic seep in again. He wants to curl up on Dom and Mal's couch forever and have Mal mother him, but Arthur's not good at taking what he wants. He does what he's good at; he searches. He's on a mission now, one with a simple objective: find Eames.

Arthur calls all of his contacts, telling them to keep an eye out for Eames, to contact him as soon as they hear even a rumor about him. Arthur follows Eames through major cities in the country, through small podunk towns and eventually overseas.

He sifts through hotels, motels, sometimes a bed and breakfast, asking for Eames, Eames, Eames and every one of his aliases. He knows them because Eames told him. Eames wanted to tell him. They were friends once

Arthur is always a step too late, missing Eames by a couple of days, a couple of hours even. And then out of nowhere, the trail goes cold. The last he's heard, Eames was in Rio, but that was a damn month ago. He doesn't even know if Eames is alive anymore.

He refuses to give up hope.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:**

Hey guys! This chapter is a bit short and sorry for the lateness! I've been really busy lately, being whisked out of state and getting sick and all. I hope you like it! If you have any suggestions or thoughts, please don't hesitate to review or message me or something.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Inception, but I can still wish, right?

/

Eames isn't even sure when it begins, this endless cycle. Yusuf said he's on the path to self-destruction once, just because he couldn't get his damn bleeding heart together and man up to talk to Arthur. Eames had just snorted and ignored him. Drinking and gambling was normal behavior for him, thank you very much.

In retrospect, Eames should have noticed earlier on, but this was himself that we're talking about, so he didn't really pick up on the minute changes.

He goes under more, building up the dosage slowly. Once a week turned into two, to three, until Eames was pulling out the cord of the PASIV and slipping a needle under his skin more than twice a day for hours at a time. Yusuf doesn't ask what he dreams about, and he is glad.

Eames' arm is dotted with tiny scars that any normal person would mistake for as signs that he was a junkie. He supposes he is, in a way. He can barely get by without going under anymore. The steady wheeze of the PASIV device becomes a normal sound in Yusuf's cramped apartment.

The drinking becomes more frequent. So do the women. Soon enough, Eames finds himself shooting illegal substances into his bloodstream because damn, it feels good because it helps him forget. He's not surprised at himself, really, and finds himself wondering why he didn't do this earlier.

Yusuf's concerned gazes, sighs, head-shakes and muttered words become easier to ignore.

/

Eames leans in and presses his lips close to Arthur's ear, his hot breath curling around the shell of it.

"Just let go, Arthur. Please. For me?" he whispers. His voice is cool, calculating.

Arthur just grips his glass harder. He's surprised it hasn't shattered under the force of his fist yet. He turns his head and his lips ghost against Eames'

"You know I want to," he breathes "But –"

/

Eames dreams of Arthur. Arthur, with a seven-foot stick up his ass. Arthur, the uptight prat who regarded Eames' wild shirts with disdain. Arthur, Arthur, Arthur.

His dreams are vivid, seemingly real. In his dreams, Arthur doesn't choke out "I can't" or "I don't". In his dreams, Arthur whispers "please" and "more" and "Eames". It is perfect.

Eames dreams of lazy walks along the beach with their fingers interlaced, of eating ice-cream side by side. Of exploring museums and travelling around the world and of a white picket fence and a freaking dog, of all things.

He dreams of wonderful endings, of fairy-tales until it isn't enough. They leave him waking up feeling reality rush in again, filling him with a horrid ache in his chest. He decides that it isn't what he needs anymore.

Eames nicks some of the compound they used for the Inception job while Yusuf isn't looking. If Yusuf notices, then he doesn't mention it. He saves it. He saves Somnacin and sedatives until he's got enough to last him a lifetime. Two lifetimes, even.

That's when he runs. He leaves a note for Yusuf.

"Thanks for letting me stay, mate," it says. "I'm sorry for being such a prick while I've been here. I've appreciated it. I'll be fine, don't look for me, you won't find me anywhere you expect. From Eames."

He makes his way back to Los Angeles, using a new alias he hadn't told Arthur about.

/

"What do you mean he's gone, Yusuf?" Arthur barks into the phone.

"He's gone Arthur! Just gone! He left a note, see." Yusuf's voice warbles through the phone as he reads the note to him.

"Why," Arthur hisses "didn't you tell me he was in Mombasa in the first place?"

"He threatened my cat! My cat, Arthur! And to pour my whole stock of Somnacin down the drain! Honestly, you can't blame me."

Arthur clenches his jaw in frustration. Eames had been so close all along. And now he was gone. Once again, Arthur was too late and there was nothing he could do about it.

"Well can you at least tell me where he might be?" he manages to say in a somewhat calm voice.

If Arthur could see Yusuf through the phone, he imagines that he would look contrite or sorry. Yusuf's voice conveys as much.

"I don't know. I'll be on the lookout though," he says. "I'm sorry Arthur, really I am. But you know, he looked so sad and desperate when he asked me not to call you. I'm sorry."

Arthur doesn't say anything, just hangs up.

/

Eames sighs as he mixes the sedative with the compound he technically bought from Yusuf. He had, after all, left a thick wad of cash that was enough to cover the cost of both in one of Yusuf's drawers.

He sets the timer on the PASIV and slides the IV needle into his arm, settling onto the motel bed.

Eames is in Paris, where he and Cobb's team worked out the logistics of the Inception job. He smiles at the old warehouse, with it's uncomfortable lawn chairs and general messy sprawl, and grabs the PASIV he dreamed up. He slides the door open and strolls onto the street. He might as well enjoy himself a bit while he was here.

He walks along the Siene, he climbs the Eiffel tower, and he eats a croissant in a tiny little café tucked away in the streets of the sprawling city. He wandered aimlessly until he checked into a nondescript motel room, pulled out the cord of the PASIV and put himself under again.

He finds himself in a place that looks a little like Mombasa. Again, he wanders around, doing what he wants to, before sliding another needle into his arm.

Eames covers his tracks with large dreamscapes filled with people, buildings riddled with paradoxical architecture, reinforced vaults guarded by militarized projections. He removes gravity in some levels so he can't be given the kick. He doesn't want to be found. He continues making his way deeper.


End file.
